New blood joins this earth,
And quickly he's subdued.
Through constant pained disgrace
The young boy learns their rules.
With time the child draws in.
This whipping boy done wrong.
Deprived of all his thoughts
The young man struggles on and on.
- "The Unforgiven," Metallica
The Kansas River through Lawrence is far from scenic—muddy, slow-moving, clogged with ash in the shallows and smelling of rotten fish and motor oil just outside of the city. It's not exactly a tourist attraction or a real-estate draw once you get out of the historic part of town, where the 'upper crust' of Lawrence (which really isn't saying all that much except they're stuck up, in Dean's opinion) want it picture perfect for themselves.
Winchester Automotive is about as far as you can get from the pretty brick buildings and tree-lined avenues, tucked among manufacturing facilities and run-down businesses.
The rains yesterday made the river swell for a time, dumping mud and debris and ash along the shoreline as it calmed, and Dean pulls a mud-caked, water-swollen boot out of the random detritus and stinking muck, holding it up by the laces for Cas with a smirk that is 90% bullshit, a mask that breaks Cas's heart because it's so practiced. "Whattaya think, size ten? Eleven?" He chucks it towards a rusted-through dumpster where it bangs hollow and loud, and then wipes his hands off on his jeans. Cas watches him sadly, hands loose at his sides, from atop the concrete wall that separates property from riverbank.
"Eh, what's it matter anyway. Welcome to the old homestead. Well, not the old homestead, that's pretty much. . ." Dean puffs a breath through his fingers, up in smoke. "But is what it is. Sam'll be here in a few minutes, maybe Jess and Jo too, I dunno. I'll see if I can't get started fixing up my car or digging out Dad's crap, unless Sammy insists we do this as a sit-down. I think better when I'm working on something so don't. . ." Dean looks up towards the sky, swallowing heavily, and he knows he's doing it again. The stupidly dutiful son he stopped being years ago. ". . . just whatever you see if we start digging around in there, don't judge my Dad too harshly, okay? He never really got over my mom."
Dean's good mood was fleeting once they left the shelter of Castiel's apartment: not because it was taken from him, but because it was packed away like a keepsake too fragile and precious to see the light of day and be exposed to a world of grief. And there is grief here, Castiel can tell. And there's pain, old pain he gets looking at the vandalized car and looking at this place that was his father's, but it's not Cas that he regrets, and so he'll be here for him, pull him back in when he can. Until then, he is watching Dean piece together his armor, a thick shell of sarcasm and self-deprecation that rings too true, too close to the problem it hides, the bleeding wounds of his shredded self-image that Castiel has only just begun to try and help mend.
When Dean gingerly climbs the steps back up to the top of the wall with him, clearly still feeling the effects of their morning activities, Castiel meets him at the top and enfolds him in an embrace, waiting until he can feel Dean relax into it before speaking, arms going around him in return. Castiel tucks his face into the bend of Dean's neck, trying to find him under the smell of the river beside them and the pungent soaps he prefers and the fabric softeners, and failing. He thinks it must be by design. Just another mask.
"Its okay, Dean. Nothing is going to affect my opinion of you."
Dean snorts, disbelieving again, and thumps a hand to Castiel's back as they hear a car running over the gravel drive, signaling the end of the embrace. "Yeah, give it time."
Castiel frowns at the sentiment, at Dean's back as he pulls away and straightens, and then sighs before following Dean slowly. He wants Dean to understand he isn't planning on running; that will take time.
"Just pull her into one of the bays, Sammy. I promised Ellen I'd tune her up since we're borrowing her. Unless you remember enough of what I taught you, can make yourself useful." Dean ducks into the bay now holding his car, snags a hand towel and snaps it at his brother's rear once he steps out of the Explorer. Sam shoots his brother an unamused expression at the teasing, which only makes Dean smirk as if that were the desired effect.
"Right, because I'm here being your lawyer, so clearly not making myself useful." Sam sighs, and looks around the garage instead, and Castiel gets the feeling that his mood is being as dramatically effected as Dean's by this place. "Let's go inside first, Dean. See how bad. I didn't want to bring Jess until. . ."
Dean's smirk dies on his face, and he nods slightly, understanding something Castiel doesn't.
From first glance, it seems that John Winchester was compulsively organized. There are no tools out of place, not a mess to be seen. Equipment and tools each have clearly designated places in toolboxes made to hold them, and it's almost compulsive in its militaristic precision. It's not until they trudge up the steps in the back of the garage, single-file behind Dean as he unlocks a door on the landing above, that he comprehends. . .
This wasn't just John's work. It was the Winchesters' home.
His impression of John's organization is modified within moments of slipping into the small kitchenette behind the brothers. The smell of stale liquor and mildew permeates the space, and he's suddenly glad that Jessica isn't there. He would like the chance to scrub it down himself before allowing a pregnant woman to poke around in this kitchen. He doesn't understand where they're going, why resolute footsteps keep them both going in the same direction within the tiny apartment carved out of what should in theory have been office space for the business below, but they don't stop until they reach a door, and exchange a look.
Dean opens the door, steps inside a closet-sized office, and Castiel finds signs of that compulsive nature again. He wished he didn't.
Papers line the walls, pictures of burned out buildings and what Castiel recognizes as autopsy reports, police records and suspect drawings, all pinned into place with map pins and linked together with colored thread. The pattern all spreads out from a space at the center of the far wall, and Dean strides across the room and halts there, hesitating a moment before carefully removing the pin from a single picture. A beautiful young blonde with her arms around a young boy, glowing in pregnancy, the colors of the photo softened and nearly washed out with time and neglect. "Dumb son of a bitch never took it down."
Sam looks to his brother, and Castiel understands that Sam never expected anything but this. There's sympathy and a bit of pity in his eyes, before Dean turns back to him, holding the picture carefully, and there are cracks in his mask, something raw to his voice. "Five years, Sammy. We got the guy five years ago, and he hasn't. . ."
Dean's eyes flick to Castiel, his jaw bunches as he cuts himself off and closes his eyes, and then he turns back to look at the wall, forcing himself to look, forcing himself to see if there are any more cherished mementos of his nearly nonexistent childhood tied up in this shit storm of death and obsession. "We should clear this crap out before anyone else comes to help. Then we'll do the legal thing."
Sam rests a hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing it tightly. "Yeah. That works for me, Dean. Hey, Cas?" Castiel looks to Sam, and understands before he's asked what he's actually being asked to do. "I've got some boxes down in the Explorer, can you go get them for us?"
Sam Winchester is giving his brother time to recover. Allowing the two boys John Winchester left behind a moment to grieve not only over the loss of their father, but of their entire childhood, to an obsession that hadn't been cured or negated when they had been promised it would all be over as soon as it was solved.
Cas nods silently and turns, taking his time to get the boxes.
xXx
On the way back through the kitchen, where Castiel is making himself useful carefully emptying out the spoiled foods in the refrigerator, Dean snags a bottle of Jack without breaking pace and leaves the door down to the garage open after himself. Sam follows in his wake with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, lingering beside Castiel as the doctor pushes himself to his feet slowly, listening to Dean's footsteps on the wooden stairs.
"Be patient with him, Castiel. I know you're not exactly meeting at a great time, but. . ." Sam sighs, and it blows an errant strand of brown hair out before him. "Dean's a great guy. This is dragging up a lot of bad stuff, and . . . I'm about to make it a lot worse."
It's a warning, a heads up of what's to come, and Castiel appreciates the gesture but not the implied question of whether it will affect his view of Dean. "Then we'll be there to help him through it."
Sam blinks, turning to look at Castiel as he finishes washing his hands at the sink, straightening as he dries them and meets Sam's measuring stare unwaveringly. He made. . . something of an impression on Sam last night, apparently, by hiring him. That was professional, however, and it was the idea that Castiel fundamentally hated the idea of rewarding rapists. Right now, in John Winchester's kitchen, Sam is not a lawyer: he is a protective brother, trying to see if Castiel is sincere.
"Nice clothes."
"Your brother determined that my usual attire wouldn't work for today's activities." Castiel tosses the paper towels into the trash, and wishes he didn't react so easily to minor embarrassment. Even if Sam can't smell sex on them given everything around them, there's no doubting that between the clothes and the blush, he doesn't need that neon sign. He raises his head, waiting for the challenge, eyes narrowed. He's not planning on denying anything, but he has no intention of asking for Sam's permission.
"Uh-huh."
Sam flicks two fingers against the side of his neck, instead, and Cas claps a hand over the surprising sting of it.
"Word of advice. T-shirts don't cover that up."
Sam smirks to himself and follows his brother down the stairs, apparently content with having teased Castiel as his only answer to the turn in their relationship, and that's that. Their relationship is known, accepted by Dean's family, and the threats of the other day still stand without being repeated. Perhaps Sam doesn't think he needs to hear it again, and perhaps Sam is starting to understand that Castiel has no intention of harming his brother. Cas stares after him, hand over his neck, attempting to determine which. As soon as Sam's gone, though, he twists and tries to see the indicated spot himself, and eventually catches his reflection in the window down into the garage.
Dean has sucked and bitten a mark into the bend between his neck and shoulder, and it is as obvious in the t-shirt as if he had put a collar around Castiel's neck. His dress shirts, even his flannel pajama shirts would hide it. But Dean most certainly noticed before they left, and took enjoyment from knowing that not only does Castiel look well fucked, he looks claimed.
Castiel rolls his eyes fondly and decides that next time he's not going to hold back quite as much for Dean's sake.
"C'mon, Cas! We haven't got all day," Dean calls up to him from below, and Castiel gives the counter one last swipe-down before following them down into the garage.
xXx
"Hand me that masking tape." Dean commands Castiel, gesturing blindly in the direction of John's workbench as he circles his car, only half listening to Sam right now. He's already changed the oil and checked under the hood of Ellen's Explorer, poking around until he was satisfied, and now he's preparing his baby to be sanded, crouching down to take the coarse grain to the words first, to strike the slurs out before he smoothes the metal skin of his car to perfection again, buffs out all the scars to leave her shining.
Sam took pictures, first, documented everything, and it's leaving him feeling exposed and annoyed. Irrationally, it also makes him feel as if he's let his Baby down somehow, her picture being taken all screwed up because of him, and consequently disappointing his father who gave the Impala to him. Just because he realizes it's irrational to feel guilty on behalf of a car and a dead guy doesn't mean he can change it, though.
"You can't tune me out, Dean. I know you don't want to talk about this, but. . ."
"I got the lawyer part already, Sam. I know you know what you're doing. Why don't you get to whatever it is you're biting your nails about and tiptoeing around." He may not understand everything of legal jargon, but Dean damn sure knows when Sam is being evasive. The stricken look on his little brother's face confirms it.
"Okay. . ." Running his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, Sam props a hip against the side of Ellen's car and sighs. ". . . Legally, I'm pretty sure I've got this in the bag. I can handle the criminal charges for you, Dean, that's not a problem. Clear cut self-defense. Cas though wasn't in any danger, so we're going to be playing with Good Samaritan laws, which means. . . well, it means we have to prove he was just in it to help."
"Which he was." Dean drawls, accepting the tape and shooting Cas a wink in thanks, pausing to take a pull from the whiskey on the toolbox beside him. He knows where his brother is going, though he's desperately trying not to think about it.
"I know he was, but . . ." Sam blows his breath out in a huff. "They're going to use it as an excuse to go after the two of you. Character assassination. In Cas's case they're going to try and prove that he's prone to this. . ."
"And they're going to pull my service record, and my dishonorable discharge." Castiel supplies Sam, resigned to the fact that hiring Sam as an attorney means that he's going to have to reveal things to his mate's brother that he would rather leave in the dark. Sam pulls a notebook with crumpled edges out of the back pocket of his jeans and scribbles a note to himself to look it up. "There was no court martial, but if they were able to find out my family they're going to find my duty record. If they begin looking for people related to that, they will go for Lt. Colonel Naomi Ascalon, the Battalion Commander for the Company with which I was deployed. Her representation of what happened would. . . not paint me in a flattering light, and it would lend itself to their work. I would recommend you speak to Captain Anna Milton, whose report spoke on my part, and perhaps some of the others from the platoon . . . the First Sergeant, or the soldiers who I acted on behalf of."
Sam is looking at Castiel questioningly: he has no context yet for any of this. So far as Castiel is aware, it's potentially the first time he's been told that he had any affiliation with the military to begin with. Closing his eyes, he sighs. "Please just. . . ask me questions once you determine what you need to know, and if it will play into their tactics. I'm not attempting to conceal anything from you that would hinder our defense."
He just doesn't want to have to speak of it, if it's going to have no bearing.
Both of their eyes swing to Dean, and he huffs a bitter, broken laugh around the bottle of Jack, and then gestures in their direction with it, a sanding square clenched in his hand. "I know what you're trying not to say, Sam. Same shit, different day. They want to prove he's a nutcase, and they want to prove I'm a whore who was asking for it."
"Dean. . ." Castiel shifts, going to move closer to him, to try and bolster him emotionally, but Dean shakes his head abruptly, stepping back, keeping himself at arm's length as if afraid to be touched.
"Don't. Just. . . don't." Dean is watching his brother without meeting Castiel's eyes, a plea in his fixed stare on Sam. "No chance of getting them to just. . . drop this shit, Sam? You said you can get me outta the criminal charges, but that still leaves Cas, and it still leaves the bullshit lawsuit."
"And our countersuit." Sam agrees, hazel eyes wide and mournful, fixed on Dean. He knows where his brother's mind has gone. And if he could just wave his hand and make everything go away, he would in a heartbeat. Perhaps even if it meant those assholes getting away with it, legally. Anything to make Dean not have to live through it again. "I can counter the victim blaming bullshit, Dean, but it's still going to come up. . ."
Something slides into place in Dean's expression, hard and forbidding. Victim. Both of the other men in the room see the word affect him, see him shut down at hearing it. "Fuck that, Sam. You know what you're going to have to do. You're going to talk to Bobby and to Ellen, because they were both there after those assholes put me in the hospital, and that's going to stir up all the old shit, and fine. I can handle that, I handled it then. But that isn't the problem. If they're digging, they're digging into everything, and that means. . ."
"Alastair." Sam agrees softly, putting word to it. The expressions that chase their way across Dean's face are terrifying and then gone, hardened into stone. Hand clenched around the bottle of liquor, he drops the sanding square down onto the tool box, and shakes his head slightly. Castiel drops his hand back to his side, his attempt to reach out to Dean rebuffed as he curses bitterly, and shakes his head again.
"No."
And that's it. He walks out of the open door of the garage and across the gravel to the riverside, sitting down heavily on the concrete wall and tipping his head back to take a deep pull from the liquor.
"What just happened here?" Castiel asks softly, into the silence that falls as both Alphas stare out at the distant, broken figure of Dean sitting in the sunlight looking out at the water. It should be such a peaceful image, but it carries with it so much pain in the set of his shoulders.
Sam closes his eyes and sighs softly. "Castiel, if you're serious with Dean. . ."
"I am."
". . . and you're stuck in this legal crap with him, it means things are going to come out that neither of you probably wants the other to know. I don't want you blindsided, and I don't want him to be either. If you're hiding anything from him, you come clean and you do it before I find the information, or I will damn sure make you regret it. I represent you, and I'm not going to leave you high and dry with this case. You helped my brother, I'm going to help you. But if you're lying to my brother about anything and I catch wind of it, those assholes won't be the only one to regret it."
"I have no intention of hurting your brother. I care about him, Sam." Castiel replies quietly, still watching Dean without challenging the threat. He's heard it before, or a variation, and he realizes that Sam is leading up to something else, clearing the air for himself before he tackles what just happened. "Help me understand this, Sam? Does this have something to do with the four months he was missing?"
"It has everything to do with it." Sam confirms sadly, and drags a palm down his face, before picking up a sanding square himself, crouching down to attack the hateful things said about his brother carved into one of the few things his brother has of his own, the only physical property he cherishes. He's taking his cues from Dean, now, keeping himself busy.
"Five years ago, my dad and my brother helped hunt down the guy who killed Mom. It was an unofficial investigation, and it just. . . well, you saw. Dad was consumed by it. Our entire childhood, Dean pretty much had to raise me himself. It was supposed to be over then, y'know? Mom's killer was gone. Dean was trying to . . . I don't know. Dean's been trying to fix our family for years, and Dad wasn't going to move on. Didn't know how to, I guess. . . it'd been decades of that being the only thing he really cared about. They were at a bar, Dad was drinking and it got nasty. He could be a pretty vile drunk. Dean ended up leaving with someone, and Dad just figured he was pissed off and picking up someone at the bar to work off some steam, I guess. That's what he said, at least."
Sam closes his eyes, and turns to brace his back to the Impala, sliding down the car to sit down on the oil-stained concrete. Castiel frowns down at him there, torn on which Winchester to watch.
"We'd spoken recently, about what happened. . . saw each other for a little bit at Stanford, when he came by to tell me it was done. He was so hopeful. I called a few weeks later. We called each other every month at least, and I called to check in on him, to tell him about college and about going to meet my girlfriend's family, and he didn't answer. I figured he was busy, he'd call me back. Didn't cross my mind to ask Dad, until he just. . . didn't call back. Not that day, not the next day. Come to find out he'd been gone for weeks."
"I flipped out. Came home. Big blowout with Dad, which. . . yeah, from me that wasn't saying as much, my Dad and I butted heads all the time. I called everywhere. Police departments, morgues, hospitals, missing persons hotlines. I dropped it all over the internet, I called everyone I could think of, I shook a lot of trees . . ." Sam closes his eyes with a bitter laugh. "You know, half the contacts I've made, the success I have at this job, it's because I was desperately looking for my big brother and I met a lot of people. Four months, Castiel. God, I was convinced he was dead, and I just couldn't. . . I needed to know."
Castiel takes a seat on the hood of the Explorer, high enough up that he can watch Dean, ill at the thought of him disappearing and at the naked pain on Sam's face, the understanding of what this must have done to him then, for him to look so upset now.
"We got a call from Michigan. They thought they recognized Dean from the stuff online, and I was back at school running the search from my dorm, barely holding it together but there because Dean had put everything into getting me into that school. It was the life he wanted for me. Dad took the tip. He took a lot of the tips. Hell, it was a new mission for him, something he could throw himself behind like he did Mom's death, and I think he felt guilty about it too."
"Dad and Dean never told me anything about Detroit. Dean was. . . he was just wrecked, and then he shut down completely. Wouldn't talk to me about it at all. They arrested a guy for abducting him. Alastair. And then he was free. I didn't understand it, didn't know why. Dean called me a few weeks later, drunk and devastated, halfway between Lawrence and Sioux Falls. Telling me he knew how Alastair got off, how he got away with it."
"Dad had mail that day. A check, written to him here, for Dean's time. Alastair twisted it all around, made it so that Dean was just. . . just some kind of employee. He wrote a check to my father for his Omega son, like Dean was just property he'd borrowed. And Dad said something stupid, and . . ."
Castiel is off of the hood of the car, halfway out of the garage, and Sam pushes himself to his feet, striding after him to rest a hand on Cas's shoulder and stopping him with a vice grip on his arm. "Where are you . . ."
"I told you we would be here to help him through it, Sam." Castiel turns on the gravel drive, blue eyes determined. "Please let go of me." Weakness and vulnerability. It's the conversation from this morning all over again. And now he has context for every flinch, every time Dean tenses, every time his face twists in self-disgust, how he could shrug off what was slung at him in the jail cell, how he needs to be in control, and how he thinks of himself as broken. Now he understands. And it's terrible. It's heart-wrenching. And he is not going to leave Dean alone with this.
"I'm his brother, Castiel, and if he's not going to talk to me about it. . ."
"You're his brother, so he's not going to talk to you about it. He wants your respect, and he doesn't want your pity. He doesn't want you to think of him differently, or see him as weak. He might not speak to me about it, either, but I am not going to leave him alone with it." Raising his hand, he rests it over Sam's on his arm, a request to be released rather than a demand. "Please let me go to him, Sam."
Castiel feels strangely exposed, stripped down by the intensity of Sam's stare, and he hasn't said the words, only realized it when he woke, but he can see understanding slot into Sam's eyes. He's no less in love with Dean now than he was this morning. He just wishes he was a great deal better at hiding himself now.
Sam's hand drops off of Castiel's arm, and he doesn't wait for him to respond, to say something about whatever he just determined for himself. His feet crunch on the gravel of the drive, and he can see Dean tense, see him take notice of the approach and draw another swig of the drink for himself. Castiel stands silently beside Dean where he sits for a moment, looking out over the river with him, this view that Dean has had since childhood. He must have come to this place hundreds of times to think.
"He told you, right? I mean, you gotta know before someone else brings it up." When Castiel doesn't respond fast enough, Dean snorts bitterly. "Services Rendered. That's what it said on the check. Decent amount of money, too. I was worth something after all. . . Guess I can't fault Dad for cashing it in the end. They start digging for things to use against you in court, or me, or whatever. . . that'll probably turn up. Hell, Alastair probably paid taxes on my wages. And it got cashed. Done deal. Just another Omega whore." Castiel's eyes scrunch closed and he lowers himself down, sitting beside Dean now with his legs hanging over the edge of the wall, just a short drop down to the muddy shore, the hands braced on the wall between them close enough to touch.
"Dean. . ."
"You ever actually been around an Omega in heat, Cas?" Dean asks, seemingly apropos of nothing, and his head swings to look at Castiel beside him. His eyes are impossibly green and shining as if he'd been crying, though Castiel sees no other evidence of tears. "There's a reason they don't want us to have a lot of jobs. They say shit about unreliability, and hormonal, and all that but it basically comes down to people around us want to fuck and at least during our heat, we want to fuck them. There's control. I'm good at controlling myself, but it gets harder farther into your heat you get. Three days, three days I can handle, but it still makes you a little crazy."
Turning back towards the water, he lifts the bottle to his lips and stops, staring at it, his hand shaking faintly. "They've got drugs that kick that off. The shit's illegal to use if you're not a doctor, it's for people trying to have a baby, or I guess the farms, but that doesn't mean it's impossible to get. Hell, people can get animal tranquilizers and slip it into drinks, what the hell makes the world think they can't get anything else they want to get ahold of. Even then, they use it once. One time thing. Three days."
Castiel wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder, pulling him close to his side, and gives him a moment without staring, looking down at the threadbare knees of Dean's jeans, silent, letting him speak for now, a solid, warm presence at his side.
"Four months. He wanted to break me in. Carve me into something else. Made a lot of money doing it, too, I'm sure. And I fought it much as I could, I did. But then I just couldn't do it anymore, Cas. He tried to get me to ask them for it, and God help me. . . by the end there, I did."
Castiel coils himself around Dean, arms hugging his shoulders as if he can protect Dean from the past, from the pain that has him crying silently, but he doesn't try to stop the words no matter how much they hurt both of them. He wishes he could rewind this day, start over again, keep Dean with him and happy in the apartment, keep him from having to face this as well as his father's death, as well as the criminal charges and the attack of his childhood.
"I remember everything, Cas. I remember too damn much."